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Halo: Rorschach
=Dramatis Personae= (pending) =''Halo: Rorschach= 'Chapter One: Interrogations' Chromatic silver walls reflected the harsh white light, flowing from a flickering, humming fluorescent bulb. A headache pulsed behind Spartan Kennedy's forehead, beating in time to the rhythm of her heart. She put two fingers on each side of her head, and rubbed her temples to block out the infernal noise, and stave off the pain. Thirteen hours after two MPs locked her in the room with nothing but a table and chair—made of the same chromatic silver material as the walls—to keep her company. A reflective mirror sat to her left, no doubt containing some form of observer to her suffering. She spared the glass a withering glare, wishing that the glass would shatter under her domineering gaze. No such luck, as no cracks presented themselves, and she couldn’t even be sure anyone sat on the other side, or if the observation process instead rested in the unfeeling gaze of an AI, or perhaps even a network of cameras. Maybe even just the one camera. Kennedy huffed a breath of insult at the thought of them only sparing a single camera, as silly as it was. She warranted at ''least a monitoring program hooked up to their fancy computer systems. The door wasn’t locked, nor secured by anything other than a flimsy console off to the side and two MPs outside. She could leave, but somehow doubted the MPs would let her. A flicker of shadow moved across the glass door, and Kennedy lifted her eyes up to focus on it. The only source of movement came from the shadow turning left and right, and muffled noises coming from beyond the door. Camilla furrowed her brow, ears straining; the men outside were whispering to one another to make sure she couldn’t hear them. Before she could discern anything from the muted conversation, the door beeped, and opened with a hiss. Light flooded through the opening and illuminated a pale man in a neat trimmed suit, with slicked back olive hair and a contemptuous grin on his face. In one hand he carried a manilla folder with thirteen pages in its folds, and Kennedy watched him take the first laborious step into the room, flashing her eyes over every detail of his person before he could so much as blink and introduce himself. In his lapel was a handkerchief emblazoned with his initials, two chains ran from the pocket of a waistcoat under his jacket, clipped onto the lapel. The telltale signs of suspenders hoisted his trousers up and kept them in place, running over his shoulders and lifting the thin material of the jacket in slight raised bumps. His teeth were white, his eyebrows trimmed, his facial hair cut into a neat square around his chin. Not a hair nor thread askew in his entire ensemble; a flawless presentation if Kennedy had ever seen one. He stopped at the other side of the table, lifted his hand with the folder, and placed it down on the chrome surface. With no words, he slid his jacket off of his toned frame and threw it over the second chair in the room—thus confirming Camilla’s suspicions of thin material. Likely polyester, or some form of synthetic fiber. Cheap, yet giving off the impression of luxury from a distance. Indeed, his white shirt appeared to be made not of cotton, but some other fabric made to give the illusion of it. Two faux-leather holsters hung from his shoulders, noticeably absent their weaponry, buttons and straps hanging loose. An ID badge hung from his shirt pocket—strange that it didn’t have a home on his jacket. With a quick fiddle with the buttons on his grey waistcoat, the Agent took a seat in the chair and sighed, locking his fingers together over the table. “Good morning.” His lips thinned, and the smile spread his cheeks further apart, revealing the tips of hsi pearly white teeth to the Spartan. Kennedy echoed his posture almost identically, and gave him an unimpressed stare. “Oh, is it?” she asked. “I wouldn’t know. They haven’t given me a clock.” “My name is Agent Byrner, or Major, if you prefer.” He reached his hand over the table, extending it outward for her to shake. She looked at the offered hand and smiled up at him, folding her arms over her chest. “I can assure you, I don’t.” she said, blinking. “Agent.” His outstretched arm withered back like a vine exposed to the blistering cold, and the Agent’s smile disappeared from his face. He returned to his ‘neutral’ position much like a flower would when the sun set—or perhaps a snake, slinking back into the tall grass to wait for the next opening to strike. He levelled his eyes at the Spartan across from him, who gave him nothing. No facial cues, nor visual tics, her breathing remained level, and her posture closed. She gave him no expression changes, fidgets, flicks of movement in her vibrant green eyes. All remained still across the table, and so the Agent moved first. Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, he lifted out a small rectangular device, hit the button on the side, and placed it face down on the table. The LED screen winked on, casting a pale blue glue on the chromatic shine of the table’s surface before being snuffed out as the datapad’s screen was obscured. “I read your file, you know,” he said, placing his hand in an arced manner atop the manilla folder, so that only the tips of his fingers made contact. When he opened his mouth to continue his diatribe, Kennedy cut him off with a sardonic whistle. “Wow,” she dragged the word out, exaggerating her mouth movements as her lips grew and shrunk around the uttered syllable. “You and about thirty-two-hundred other mid-level administration personnel over the course of the past five months, alone.” She huffed out a mirthful chuckle and leaned a bit closer to the Agent over the chair. “You’re not special for reading a data file.” “Alright, fine,” the Agent nodded at her. “I pulled a favour and got the uncensored version.” He tapped the folder beneath his hands twice, drumming his fingers upon its surface. Gent;e sounds of fingertips hitting paper filled the room, as loud to Camilla’s ears as gunshots. “Physical paperwork,” he said. “Secured in military cabinets, unhackable, uncompromisable.” “Yeah?” Camilla leaned forward in her chair, a surreptitious crossing of her arms and angling of her body presenting a faux-air of playfulness to the Agent across from her. “See anything you like?” she asked. “Any sordid details for those bedtime fantasies of yours?” She flashed him a wink from the corner of her eye. He took a breath, folded his arms over the manilla folder he placed on the table, and smiled. “This will go faster if you cooperate.” “It’ll go a lot faster if I wasn’t here at all,” Kennedy replied, unfolding herself and returning to her original position. A measure of silence passed between them, punctuated only by the Agent tapping out a tempoless beat on the table with his thumb. “What do you have to hide?” He eventually broke the silence, leaning forward as he spoke. Camilla arched an eyebrow atop her head and shifted her jaw sideways. “What do you have to find out that a skim over my record didn’t already tell you?” she asked, pressing the tip of her tongue to her molars. The Agent hummed, grinned, and sat back in his chair. “I’m asking the questions, here.” “Are you?” Camilla’s eyes turned incredulous. “Because from where I’m sitting,” she looked to the left and the right, before casting her surreptitious eyes back at the Agent across from her, “you aren’t in control of this interrogation.” The Agent cleared his throat and brushed the tips of his fingers along his forehead. “It’s not an interrogation, Spartan.” “No?” Kennedy’s next reply came just as snappy as her last. “One way glass,” she motioned to her left, “chairs, table, single light,” a finger pointed up, then wandered to the face-down datapad between them, “recording everything I say. It’s not looking good for that claim, Agent.” “It’s simply a routine evaluation.” Agent Byrner shifted in place and smoothed the creases from his shirt, producing a crinkling of his fingers on cheap imitation cotton. “Of?” Kennedy asked. The Agent grinned, displaying his teeth much like a shark when sensing blood in the water. “We’ll get to that.” “I hope so,” Kennedy sighed, crossing her legs under the table and huffing. “Because right now I am so bored I’ve resorted to antagonising the only human interaction I’ve had in the past six hours.” “We’re getting off the subject,” the Agent pressed, eager to press his return of control. “You never specified a subject, Agent,” Kennedy said. “You’ve allowed me to dictate the direction of the conversation. I hope this isn’t your first interrogation, because it sets a piss-poor standard.” Flexing his hands, the Agent’s knuckles produced popping sounds before he relaxed them once more.“You’re angry because of the delay. I can understand. Being taken away from your unit can be stressful.” “Yes, I know,” Kennedy said, licking the back of her teeth and smiling at him. “And you were in that room over there watching me, hoping I would get more and more nervous. More and more agitated as time dragged on. I expect that was why it took you so long to get yourself in here; you kept waiting for me to show signs of cracking.” There was more silence between them, and to a normal human perhaps it would’ve been quick enough to dismiss as routine. Not to a Spartan, and certainly not to Camilla. “What makes you say that?” the Agent asked. Kennedy pressed herself forward and squinted her eyes. “I know your type, Mr slick suit and greasy hair.” She tilted her head to one side, her thousand-yard stare piercing the Agent thoroughly. “You come in here, quiet as you possibly can be, and slide something onto the desk. You offer a hollow smile, take off your three-button ‘28 suit you got from an ONI petty cash fund you hope they won’t notice gone, and the first thing you say, ‘I read your file’.” He sat up straight, his hands now palm-down on the table on either side of the file, watching her with expressionless eyes. “Like that gives you some power over me,” the Spartan dug the needle in deeper. “Like it’s meant to be intimidating. ONI’s tactics for interrogation are outdated, and I can see I’ve got you rattled like a canary in a coal mine. So why don’t you fly away, little birdie.” She leaned back in her creaky metal chair, brought her hands up, and flapped them away from her chest “Fly back to your desk, and your easy paycheque, before you try to tease details out of someone trained to psychoanalyse a person before they’ve even sat in that chair.” She looked away from him, back to her own reflection in the glass. Requisitions would give her a copy of the tape, if she asked nicely. The Agent stood up, picked up the manilla folder, and opened it. Reaching inside, he began to throw papers down onto the table. The flash of colour drew Kennedy’s eye back to them, and a burst of anxiety gave her heart a skip. On the table were photos of herself and Spartan Lones, close together, hugging, and one of them that he placed atop all the rest, displayed the two with their hands interlocked. “Do I have your attention, now?” the Agent asked. Kennedy studied the photos for a second, before looking up at the Agent with a furrowed brow. “What’s this, then?” “Among other things, grounds for a fraternisation charge, and possibly a dismissal,” the Agent folded his arms at her and rocked himself from side to side, confidence exuding from his expression. Kennedy wanted to punch the teeth clean out the other side of his head. “No it isn’t,” she huffed with mirth. “It’s grounds to launch an investigation into a possible fraternisation charge,” she enunciated, then rapped her knuckles on the polaroids. “These photographs alone are not grounds enough to dismiss a soldier for it. Let alone a Spartan.” She pointed a finger at the glass. “''They'' wouldn’t let you.” “We already have a confession from Spartan Lones,” the Agent said. Camilla restrained herself from bursting out laughing and held a hand to her mouth to stop the last few giggles from escaping. The Agent’s smug aura disappeared entirely. “No you don’t,” Camilla coughed out the words around barely-constrained laughter. The Agent put his hands on the surface of the table and leaned towards the Spartan with furrowed, angry brows. “What makes you so sure?” Camilla’s head rolled on her shoulders, and she flicked her head down towards the table. “Look at the photos, Agent.” He arched an eyebrow at her. “So you admit you’re close?” “I admit nothing,” Kennedy said. “Because you’ve made no solid accusations that can’t immediately be dismissed.” He held a finger out to her, and jutted it forward until it was nearly touching her face. “I hold the power to make your life substantially worse in the near future. Me!” He thrust the finger forward again and forced the Spartan to move her head back. “Point at me again,” Kennedy began, “and you’re going to lose that finger.” “We’ll start by restricting your access to certain items,” the Agent said, lowering his hand and continuing his tirade, unabated. “Then we’ll restrict your movements, restrict your privileges, restrict your schedule, restrict your interaction with the other members of this programme. You may want to cooperate.” Kennedy put her hands on the table and lifted herself up out of the chair, towering over the Agent at her full height. “The only power you have is the power to spit, and whine, and bark. Empty threats, and lots of this,” she held up her hand, flapping the fingers up and down like a vicious mockery of mouth movements. “And not a lot of anything else.” The Agent watched her, with a snarl twisting his face. “You’ll never hold a gun again, not after I’m done with you, Spartan.” “You think I need a gun to fight you?” Kennedy asked. “I cracked you, already.” She grinned at him. “I made you lose that oh-so-perfect, pristine facade you put on when you came in here, Agent. You think I need a gun for that?” The Agent huffed, reached down, and scooped up twelve pictures, stuffing them back into the folder, and grabbing the datapad from off the table. He kept the screen away from her. Kennedy cast her eyes towards the mirror and caught a glimpse of the screen—wavy lines under a silhouette of a woman’s face. It wasn’t a recording, but a vid call. He switched the datapad off, and stuffed it in his jacket pocket, before ripping the item of clothing off of the chair and knocking it onto its back. “You’ve made a mistake today, Spartan,” he hissed. “You don’t want me as your enemy, and yet you made the choice to do so.” “What other choice was there?” Kennedy seethed right back, her eyes dangerous, and her grip on the table threatening to puncture holes through the metal. “The alternative, Agent, was to throw my teammate under the bus, as well as myself, on circumstantial evidence. What would you have done?” He said nothing, merely turned on his heels and walked back towards the door. When it slid open, Kennedy called after him. “I have a feeling I know exactly what you would have done!” He paused for a split second, cast her a withering look from over his shoulder, and stepped out of the room, leaving the door open for her to exit as well. She sat back down in her chair, and stared down at the picture she had swiped from the pile, smiling to herself, before folding it up and slipping it into the shirt of her fatigues, and making for the open door. ---- Chapter Two: Fresh Faces The crisp crunch of an apple being bitten into filled the elevator, followed by the sounds of an even, rhythmic chewing. Staff Sergeant Moses Burke tapped his foot while he waited for the elevator to descend thirteen floors into the lower grounds of Töretlen Fortress; the headquarters for the Epimetheus Programme. He yawned and shook his head from side to side, before taking another bite of the green apple in his hands. The journey from Viery to the other side of the planet wore down on his shoulders like an oppressive weight, and the uneasy feeling settling into his gut did no favours for his condition, either. “I don’t get it,” came a voice from beside him, right as he was about to take a third bite of what passed for his lunch. The Staff Sergeant looked over at the speaker, teeth half buried in the remnants of his apple. “Hmm?” he hummed. Specialist Sam Leyllan rifled through papers in her hand, and cross referenced them on a wrist-mounted datapad. She looked increasingly frustrated as she skimmed the contents of the copiously-stuffed manilla folder in her hand. Text scrolled up and down on her wrist-mount, responding to keywords that she spoke to it in half-mutters. Burke let his eyes linger on her for a while, darting between her face and the papers that were rapidly wriggling free of her grasp. When it became increasingly apparent that she was going to keep struggling, and not speak again, he bit off the chunk of his apple he had his teeth in, and wiped his lips. “What?” he asked, around a mouthful of half-chewed apple chunks. She looked up at him, and shook her papers about. “None of these records exist in ONI’s database!” she huffed. “''No'' references except for bullet points, no paper trail except for funding requests, or equipment. Nothing to link the two together except for logistics.” Huffing, she threw her hands back down to her sides and her head back up against the back of the elevator with a thud. Sighing, she folded the papers back up and slid them into the folder, shaking her head. “I don’t like it.” Swallowing the rest of his apple, the Staff Sergeant tossed it into a waste bin, hanging on the wall of the elevator. “Don’t question it,” he said. “This sort of stuff only keeps you up at night.” He laughed. “Or, well, it’ll keep the people watching you up at night.” She fixed him with a withering look and shook her head. “That’s not funny.” He clicked his tongue and went back to staring at the doors to the elevator. “It wasn’t meant to be, Leyllan.” She pushed herself off of the elevator back wall and stepped up next to him, glancing up at the floor number. Six had passed them by since they started talking. “I’ve never even heard of this programme. What do they even do?” “Beats me,” Burke said with a shrug. “I found out about this place this morning, en route over from Viery.” She blinked, and looked over at him with a furrowed brow. “You’re joking.” He shook his head at her and laughed. “I am not. I don’t even know why we’re here. We’re not exactly gonna turn any heads if this is run by ONI.” Groaning, Leyllan ran a hand over her face and looked up to the ceiling. “Why did you have to drag me into this?” Shaking her head, she lowered her hand to smooth down her fatigues, muttering under her breath the entire time. “I’m gonna get black bagged on my first trip into the field.” “You’re my partner,” he said with a shrug. “Technically, army CID aren’t meant to train their replacements with field work, but, you have promise. I may have pulled a few strings to get this to work out.” She held up the folder stuffed with papers. “And you stuck me with the paperwork?” “That was only to shut you up,” he sniped, wagging his eyebrows and upturning his lips. Her arms went lip, the papers rustling in her grasp as she deadpanned. “Wow. Thanks for that.” She huffed, turned away, and folded her arms over her chest, keeping the folder pinned between her arms and her chest. “Relax,” he waved a hand at her. “I’m kidding. It was to make sure we had something going into this. Information, procedure.” He rolled his shoulders as the elevator showed they had gone down another three floors. “Some kind of arsenal. I don’t like walking into any situation blind.” “Right,” she nodded. “So?” he asked. She looked at him and blinked in a mawkish fashion. “So what?” He sighed, rolling his eyes. “What did you find out?” She looked down at the folder and shrugged. “Big lot of nothing, I’m afraid. This paper’s got more bars across it than a prison cell.” Burke shook his head. “There has to be something.” Opening the file again, she flicked through the pages once more, now bound together with a paperclip. “All mention of candidates is blocked, all mention of operational history is blocked.” Flipping through more pages, black bars started to appear on more and more lines, inking out precious details. Burke was unconvinced that the very information in digital form didn’t have those very same bars. “Psyche profiles,” she continued, looking at him with a pointed glance before she spoke again. “Blocked. Names, blocked. Admiralty meetings, logistical manifests, inventory. Blocked, blocked, blocked.” She flipped a hand up and went back through all the pages once more, flashing her eyes over them as she went. “We have nothing but a fat lot of dead trees, here. Might be good for kindling, but the words on it aren’t worth the paper.” The elevator came to a stop, and the doors slid open to reveal expansive yellow corridors beyond, and a reception-like atrium with two security checkpoints, and a desk in between them. Staff Sergeant Burke took a lungful of air, and let it out in a slow breath. “Well, we know one thing.” “What’s that?” Leyllan asked. He turned to her with a solemn look etched into his face. “That this programme is important enough that everything in your hands is covered in black ink.” He stepped out of the elevator, and into the security checkpoint. They stepped up to the desk and greeted the pair behind it. Drab fatigues covered them, and they held up a sign-in sheet for visitors. They both signed their names, received ID badges, and checked their sidearms, before stepping into the security scanner, and allowing the conveyor belt below them to roll them through the sensors. When they stepped off at the other end, their sidearms were returned to them, and they stepped through one of the two flanking doorways, and into the network of corridors beyond. “So, what is this programme, then?” Leyllan asked. “Since you seem to have it figured out. The Staff Sergeant stopped when a man walked around the corner, in a pressed suit, with slick back hair and a false smile plastered on his face. “I have my suspicions,” he said, straightening as the ONI Agent approached. “But we’re about to find out.” Leyllan turned to face the ONI Agent as well, who stopped just in front of them and extended a hand to greet them both. “Sergeant Burke,” he nodded to the man. “Welcome to the Epimetheus Programme. I am Major Byrner, I’m glad you could make it on such short notice.” Staff Sergeant Burke shook the offered hand and smiled, nodding along. “Yeah, well, I didn’t really have a choice. I suppose, by extension, neither did she.” He thumbed over at Leyllan. The Agent turned to regard her, looking her up and down before remembering himself, and offering her his hand too with a shake of his head. “A pleasure, miss…?” “Specialist Samantha Leyllan,” she replied, shaking his hand with slightly more force than was necessary. He arched an eyebrow and looked over at the Staff Sergeant, taking his hand away. “Specialist?” “Army CID,” Burke replied. “Consider her a trainee.” “I see,” the Agent nodded, then turned to one side and motioned back down the corridor. “If you would both follow me, we can talk more in private.” Burke nodded and motioned for the Agent to lead the way, before falling in behind the suited man with a quick step down the yellow walls and white linoleum floors. Leyllan jogged to catch up for a while, before settling into a comfortable marching pace, flanking the two men. “No disrespect, Major,” she said, “but I’m just curious why we were called at all? I mean, not us specifically, but, the MPs. CID.” He eyed her over one shoulder, went to speak, before looking around at a few passing people and thinking better of it. “You’ll understand when you learn more of the who—or, more accurately what—the suspects are.” Leyllan furrowed her brow in confusion. “What are they?” The Agent smirked at her over the shoulder. “Not public knowledge.” They passed by a long window, with multiple people standing at the sill and watching. The observation window led into a large room, filled with all manner of artificial polycrete constructs, hastily assembled into a replica of a combat arena. Leyllan slowed to watch when a flash of movement caught her eye. A figure ran across the length of the arena in five long strides, the speed of the figure, even when encumbered with a full suit of armour, easily surpassed that of any other soldier. Stepping up to the window, she muscled in between a pair of soldiers, and set her hands down on the windowsill to watch. A woman clad in aqua armour was the one that got her attention. Heavy training rifle in her hands, and some kind of headset hooked up to wires and sensors over the rest of her armour took up a position behind a chest-high wall. As Leyllan watched, the figure vaulted the wall, rifle up as she skidded along its top surface, firing shots of red paint as she slid along the polycrete. Her targets; likewise armoured and fast, ducked and ran for cover along the other end of the simulation chamber. The aqua-clad figure landed on the other side of the wall, ducking to one side as a trio of shots ate at where she stood, staining the ground beside her. She rolled a few more times, off of the raised platform, and down onto the lower levels, breaking sight-lines with her attacker; a figure clad in navy blue. The second figure closed the gap before the first could react, aiming her rifle down at the slanted platform that served as a staircase. The aqua-armoured woman tucked her legs in and slid down the slant, aiming her rifle up and firing at the other woman as she went down. The spectacle continued, and Leyllan felt her mouth hang open at the inhuman displays of speed and reflexes. At one point, two of them began engaging in CQC, with movements so fast that it gave Leyllan a spiking sensation of a headache forming in her head. “Holy hell,” she whispered to herself, leaning on the windowsill a bit more. Staff Sergeant Burke approached from behind, about to ask why she had stopped moving, before he too saw the spectacle unfold in the cyclopean chamber. Suddenly, the depth of the installation’s underground segments made sense to him, as everything above them wrapped around this cavernous training room. “I’ll be damned,” he whispered. “Spartans.” “Hey! You lot!” A voice cut through the excited chattering and cheering around them, getting the attention of every soldier and spectator along the long window. A man emerged from one of the side doors, wearing a Major rank on his epaulettes, and a snarl on his face. “Clear off!” he ordered. “Get back to work. This ain’t pay-per-view.” As the spectators began scurrying off down the corridors, and away from the window, the new Major approached the ONI agent. “You’ll have to forgive us, Major. You showed them in right while they were training.” Byrner raised an eyebrow, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “That was intentional, Major.” The new arrival ignored the remark, offering a hand to the pair much like the Agent did. “Nice to meet you,” he said. “Major Romero Briggenshaw, head of security, acquisitions, and de-facto drill instructor.” Burke smiled and shook his hand. “Major.” Leyllan took the hand when it was offered, shook it, and raised an eyebrow. “De-facto?” Briggenshaw smirked, thumbing over his shoulder at the training session still ongoing in the room behind them. “They look like they need a DI?” he asked. “What’s the exercise?” Burke asked, eyes drawn back to the scurrying figures. “Search and Destroy,” Briggenshaw replied. “Two teams go in, one comes out, the other stays and has to clean up.” A cough from behind them drew their attention back to the ONI Agent, who held out his hands. “I was just escorting them to their room, before they decided to stop.” Briggenshaw raised an eyebrow. “Their quarters, you mean?” “No,” Byrner replied. “The interrogation room. Where they will be meeting with the suspects.” “The subjects, Major,” Briggenshaw corrected, stepping over to him and smiling. “Presumption of innocence is ''still in effect.” Rolling his eyes, Byrner sighed. “I have evidence. All I need is a confession.” “If you ''need ''a confession,” Briggenshaw said, “then you don’t have enough ''evidence, Major.” The pair stared at each other for a time, while Staff Sergeant Burke shot a look over at Leyllan with wide eyes. Briggenshaw stepped to the side, keeping his eyes trained on the Agent the whole time before he turned around to stand beside the Agent, hands clasped behind his back. Byrner regarded the pair in front of him with a neutral gaze. “You’ll have to forgive him,” he said. “Briggenshaw gets protective of his assets, and his position.” “And Byrner holds grudges,” Briggenshaw remarked with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes, or any other part of his rigid posture. “In fact, I suspect he was about to get you to sign his NDAs. He was supposed to wait until I was free to show you around, as security is my domain,” the Major shot a look at the Agent. Agent Byrner bit his cheek so hard that Burke was sure he would rip right through it. “I have autonomy—” he began. Briggenshaw cut him off. “''Not'' in my base, Agent.” “In any case, they will have to sign NDAs in order to continue with their investigation,” Bryner said, shifting the topic of conversation, and turning back to the other two in the corridor. “I’m sure you both understand, this is a matter of interplanetary and government security.” Briggenshaw nodded. “The contents of this compound are sensitive, and none of it is public knowledge,” he added. Leyllan and Burke both nodded. “Of course,” Staff Sergeant Burke said. “We understand completely.” “Good. Now.” The Agent clapped. “If you’ll follow…” he paused, looking over at the Major. “Us,” he said. “We’ll escort you to the interview room.” They both turned to walk down the corridor, matched in step and gait. Burke turned to Leyllan, sighed, and motioned for her to go first. Leyllan shook her head and began walking down the corridor after the pair of Majors, followed behind by Burke. They came to a stop in front of a room with a sliding titanium door, entirely smooth, and with no identifiable markings save for a number emblazoned on it. Briggenshaw tapped his ID card to the access pad linked up to the door, and the red light on it flashed to green. The door slid open, and Briggenshaw walked inside, followed by Byrner, then the two CID personnel. The room inside was just as plain, with silver walls, silver floor, and silver furniture. A full-length mirror took the spot of one of the walls, and Burke watched his own reflection, and that of the others, as they all stepped into the room proper. Two chairs sat around a table, on opposite sides, looking sad, and blending into the rest of the room. A single light, thus far unlit, hung above them by a spaghetti-strand wire. No one made a move to turn it on, keeping the room in a state of permanent inky dark, punctuated only by the glow of the door lights, and Leyllan’s PDA. “Please,” Agent Byrner said. “Have a seat, both of you.” Staff Sergeant Burke cleared his throat, and both he and Leyllan moved over to the table. Leyllan took her seat first, placing her folder and the files within on the table. Burke hefted up the metal chair from the other side of the table, moving it to the same side and taking a seat next to her. Briggenshaw kept himself by the door, posture sharp, legs apart, and arms clasped. He watched the entire room from that position, including what he couldn’t normally see, reflected in the reflective glass wall to Burke’s right. The Agent smiled at them both, and Burke felt his mouth go very dry. He’d had nightmares about exactly this situation, before. Looking over to his side, Leyllan fidgeted in a state of similar discomfort. The Agent placed a form down on the table in front of them, as well as a fountain pen, standing back up straight and motioning to the pristine sheet, before sliding his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “This is a standard NDA form,” he said. “By signing it you agree that you will repeat nothing of what you see here.” Staff Sergeant Burke looked up at them both, flicking his eyes between them. “Actual paper, huh?” “Electronic records can be altered,” Major Briggenshaw said. “Tampered with.” He pointed. “This will go in a secure file, held on site.” “There’s only one,” Byrner said. “So, you will both need to share the dotted line. Had we known you were bringing a trainee, we would’ve drafted another.” Burke nodded. “Understood,” he said, picking up the pen and leaning down to sign on the dotted line. He kept his type small, and left enough room for Leyllan to sign her own signature, before handing over the pen. She took ahold of it and sighed, leaning down to put her name beside the Staff Sergeant’s. When she finished, she put the pen’s lid back on, and set it down atop the paper. Agent Byrner stepped forward, grabbed the top of the paper, and slid it off the table. The pen clattered atop it, before the paper slid out from underneath it. Agent Byrner reclaimed his pen, sliding it back into his breast pocket. He held the NDA up to inspect the signatures, scrutinising them with intense eyes. “While you are on base, you’re expected to not interfere with the day-to-day activities,” Briggenshaw said. “Understand that the Spartans are needed elsewhere, typically for extended periods of time. If they’re called for a mission, they will likely not return for a while.” Leyllan clasped her hands together and furrowed her brow. “What would we have to do in the meantime?” “Well, you would be permitted to remain on-site,” Briggenshaw nodded, “but, your investigation would be considered paused.” The Agent chuckled, folded the NDA, and slid it into his jacket. “That’s unlikely to happen,” he said. “This investigation shouldn’t take long.” “Cases of minor infractions typically don’t take all that long,” Staff Sergeant Burke said. Briggenshaw hummed in mock thought, eyebrows flicking up and back down as he fixed the Agent with a look. “Which leads me to wonder why you were needed at all.” Agent Byrner turned to face the Major and blinked, before turning around to face the two seated figures, and nodding at them. “You will begin tomorrow. Report to me if you find anything.” Major Briggenshaw sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with two fingers. He looked over at the Staff Sergeant and the Specialist, still sitting in the chairs. With a frustrated squeeze of his eyes, he held a hand up to them both and waved it. “You don’t have to report to anyone,” he said. “Just conduct the investigation. Talk to the subjects, observe them, make your conclusion, and you can leave. Should take a week at most.” Without another word, he too left the room. Specialist Leyllan leaned forward, tented her fingers, and pressed the tip of her nose to her index fingers, shaking her head. Staff Sergeant Burke stretched his arms up, and placed them behind his head, fingers interlocked with one another. “What the hell have we gotten ourselves into?” ---- Chapter Three: Ink Blots The ticking of an analogue clock filled the room with a sense of calm. Tranquility permeated every inch of the room. There were painted miniatures along one of the bookshelves, actual leather-bound books adorning the empty spaces, next to crystalline bookends and knick-knacks, and the room appeared quaint, and personal. It presented, first and foremost, to anyone that came to partake of the services offered therein, that the owner of the room was genuine, and exuded an aura of trustworthiness. For Doctor Monroe, especially, this suited him just fine. Anything that would allow his subjects to open up to him. An hour had already passed the two people by, and it barely felt like any time at all. Ironically, the feature of such a primitive clock, ticking away above the desk and the man sitting behind it, gave the whole room the feeling that it existed outside of time. Doctor Monroe and the person sitting on the couch were discussing various things, and the chit chat wandered around aimlessly, from topic to topic. Every now and then, Doctor Monroe made periodic notes on his datapad, cross referencing them with the Spartan’s broader psyche profile. By the time the clock above them had struck an hour, the Doctor found that he had been just as engaged in the conversation as the Spartan. He decided they should move on. He reached into his desk, pulling out several dozen flash cards, each of them containing an ink-blot pattern. He placed them face-down on the top of his desk, beside his coffee—now cold—and his datapad. “Now, Carrie,” he said, folding his hands. “We’ve come to the part of the session which I know you dislike.” The Spartan slumped her shoulders, her helmeted head falling over the back of the couch. “Jesus, Doc, can we just not today?” Holding up a placating hand, the Doctor smiled at her. “I know you’re not overly fond of the test, but the perception of patterns can give tremendously valuable insight into a patient’s mental state.” Carrie lifted her helmeted head back up and tilted it to one side. “Patient? And here I thought we were making real progress, Doc,” she laughed to herself, folding one armoured leg over the other. He elected to ignore her quip, and instead offered her a smile, lifting up the first of the flash cards. “Tell me what you see, Spartan.” She leaned forward, hands on her armoured knees, and sighed. “I see…” she waved her hands at the cards and slumped back into the plushness of the couch. “I see the same damn thing I always see, okay?” she said. “Which is?” he raised an eyebrow and moved the card a little bit forward. She looked off to one side, then back at the cards. “I see two dancers,” she said, “hands on something between them, bent at the waist, blah blah blah.” She became increasingly disinterested as she went on, before just shaking her head. “Look, Doc, just level with me, okay? What’s the real reason we’re doing this?” Doctor Monroe placed the card pile face-down on his desk, tenting the fingers of one hand above them and clicking his tongue. “Epimetheus is currently playing host to two Army CIDs who want access to psyche records,” he said. “Under whose authorisation?” Carrie asked, a might too quickly for it to be polite conversation. Monroe arched his brow up ever further as he studied the featureless faceplate of the Spartan’s EOD helmet. “Our dear sweet Office guest,” he said. “And he wasn’t satisfied with the ones we had on record, he wants an updated version.” Spartan Lones looked away from him, down to the right, and then up and to the left. He watched her, studying her movements. She was trying to recall memories, file threat assessments, he had seen her work this way before. “If you’re trying to figure out if you’ve seen him around, you probably have,” he said to her, picking up the flash cards. “Doc, c’mon. Help me out here,” she gave a roll of her shoulders. “I’m sorry, Carrie.” He gave her a sympathetic look and huffed, shaking his head. “My hands are tied, as much as yours. I don’t like it any more than you do.” She looked away from him, folding her arms much like a petulant child would, who didn’t get her way. Monroe smiled a half smile as he watched her. Despite all the advancements in technology and biology she represented, she was still a teenager. He looked down at the cards, tapping the stock a few times and chewing on his tongue. “Look,” he said. “If you truly don’t want to engage with this session, then just repeat the answers you have previously given, or simply say ‘no change’.” He motioned to his datapad and stylus, sitting off to one side. “I’ll write them down as genuine, report no significant development on your profile, and we can move on.” She looked at him, unfolding her arms. “Will ONI let you do that?” He scoffed at her, waving a hand in front of his face. “They don’t really have a say in what I can and can’t do, funnily enough. I don’t operate under their jurisdiction, I am a civilian attache only.” He gave her a conspiratorial wink, and a sly upturn of the corner of his lips. She huffed with mirth and turned back around to face his desk fully. “You know, for someone who isn’t ONI, you sure are sneaky like ONI.” “Yes, well.” He picked up the cards, stacking them up and making them neat again. “Comes with the territory I’m afraid.” He held up the cards, and shifted the first one out of the way. Her helmet moved a slight amount, then back again. “Two animals,” Carrie said. “Performing some kind of physical contact. Touching paws, maybe. I see bears.” He nodded. “Good.” “So, what can you tell me about the new Army types?” she asked, leaning forward and pressing her hands together between her knees. He paused in the middle of shifting the cards. “I’m not sure I follow.” “Well, you say they’re here to investigate,” she said, motioning at him. “Or, at least, assist in the investigation.” He shifted the card fully to the back of the stack, hesitating for a while in what to tell her. Or even, indeed, what he really knew at all. “No change,” she said. “Why do you want to know?” Monroe asked. She shrugged. “Would be nice to know about the people who might be getting me a court martial in the future.” “Carrie, please,” he gave her a deadpan stare. “It won’t come to that. The Major wouldn’t let it happen. To say nothing of the Admiral.” He swapped the cards out. She shook her head. “No change. Humour me. Who are they?” “Staff Sergeant Moses Burke,” he said, “and Specialist Samantha Leyllan.” Another card disappeared into the back of the stack, revealing another to the Spartan. She moved her hand as if to swipe it away. “No change,” she said. “What’s a Specialist doing palling around with CID?” “I assume it's some form of provisional role,” the Doctor shrugged, shaking his head from side to side. “Truth be told, I know precious little about the rank structures of the Army. Perhaps she merely jumped up through the training early, already.” “Can thay do that?” she asked. “The galaxy is vast, Spartan.” Monroe leaned back in his seat and shifted it closer to the desk. “If ONI had time to track down every minor infraction of the rules, then they still wouldn’t, for want of focusing on larger things.” He heard her blow air from her nose. “Well, they’re certainly going out of the way to make Camilla and me suffer<” she said, then remembered she was meant to be reacting to the ink blots. “No change. All because of some perceived intimacy.” He pursed his lips and raised his brows in her general direction. “Now, Carrie,” he laughed slightly. “Are you telling me they’re wrong to suspect?” “Anyone would suspect,” she said with a nod. “What I’m saying is they’re idiots for pursuing.” “And why is that?” he shifted the cards. “Look—no change—whatever business we have, Camilla and I, is between us.” she pressed a hand to her chest at that last word and held it there for a full second. “Even if we were violating the UCMJ, they couldn’t exactly arrest us. Toss us in a lockup, throw away the key. They couldn’t discharge us, rip out what they’ve put in us and send us loose on the streets.” “You’re sure of that?” he asked her. Spartan Lones rolled her head around her neck. “I don’t know about can’t, as in, their ability.” But I’m sure they wouldn’t.” “And that’s because of the Covenant yes?” he nodded at her, spurring her to continue. “Yeah,” she echoed the nod. “What would happen if other ONI types found out that Agent what’s-his-name decided to can two Spartans and send them back to Civ life? He’d be lynched!” “I agree,” Monroe said, then held up a finger. “But, have you stopped to consider that perhaps this isn’t an immediate punishment sort of investigation?” He held up the last card, and usually the most visually distressing of the lot to the subjects. She eyed it for a second, throwing a full-bodied shudder off her armour. “No change. What do you mean?” He placed the cards down, lifted up his datapad, and placed a pair of reading glasses onto his nose. “When the war is over,” he paused, nodding back and forth, “if it ever ends, one way or another, have you considered that perhaps these various infractions would come back to haunt you?” She recoiled at that. “You think ONI can hold a petty grudge for that long?” “ONI never forgets,” he peered at her from over the top of his glasses, “and ONI never forgives, Spartan.” She made a grunt of disapproval. “That’s an uncomfortable line of thought.” “I apologise for weighing you down with it,” he said, “I just want you both to be careful.” She nodded, offering no reply. He began scribbling on the tacpad with his stylus, true to his word reporting no change in her psyche profile. “Anything else?” she asked, placing her hands on her knees and moving to stand up. He held the stylus up and made a noise. “Uh, one more thing,” he said. “Remove your helmet.” Carrie paused, stunned at the request, watching him for five seconds. He kept his expression neutral, as much as he could, keeping his movements slow, if he had to make any at all. She shook her head at him. “Now doc, you know I’m not gonna do that.” “Please, Carrie,” he sighed. “You’re among friends, here. Someone you can trust.” “It’s not that,” she struggled to find the words for a while. “It’s just…” “I know it makes you uncomfortable,” Monroe said, holding up a hand, “but if you continue to let it fester, then you’ll never recover. Not to mention you’re not getting enough natural sunlight. Your latest medical reports a Vitamin D deficiency.” He paused and shook his head. “They have you on supplements, for god’s sake. Which, might I add, for a Spartan is an impressive feat in and of itself.” She pressed her chin to her chest and avoided his gaze. “I keep my helmet off when I’m in my quarters.” “With the other Spartans, you mean,” Monroe said. “Yes,” she answered, even though it wasn’t phrased as a question. “Never outside, among the grounds,” he continued. She didn’t need to answer that one. “Point exactly.” He straightened his back and repeated his request. “Remove your helmet. Please.” The Spartan hesitated, her fingers working in a nervous pattern over her left knee. Monroe focused his eyes on the movement, as the rest of her remained stock still. Carrie ceased the movements and sighed, letting her shoulders slump, before she reached up and clasped the sides of her helmet. Twisting it, the helmet gave a hissing pop as the seals came loose from their moorings, and her pale white skin and brown hair were exposed to the cool air of the office—alongside the angry pink scar that marred the right hand side of her face. She kept her eyes down to the floor, and away from Monroe, angling her head away and to the right so that he wouldn’t be able to see that part of her face. He began scribbling on his datapad, pausing every few seconds to look back up at her, and write something else down. He could feel her tensing up by the second, her helmet in both of her hands with a white-knuckle grip around the chin. Any second now, he thought her fingertips would punch right through the outer shell. He was waiting for her to crack, waiting for her to buckle, and put her helmet back on. The time she could withstand out of the armour, under his scrutinising glare, would be a measure of her tolerance for such things. She shifted in place and shook her head, standing up in a fraction of a second, and slamming the helmet back over her head, locking it in place with a click. “Listen, doc,” she cleared her throat, avoiding looking at him as she walked over to the door. “It’s been real fun. Real enlightening stuff, today, but, uh,” she thumbed towards the door and hit the side-release. “I got a prior appointment to make at the firing range. Training doesn’t wait for anyone, especially not a Spartan.” “Of course,” he smiled at her, motioning for her to leave. “I won’t keep you.” She was gone before he could blink, and the door hissed shut. Monroe picked up his datapad and input the time it took her to relent this time, and noticed an improvement of nearly a full twelve seconds. Progress was progress, and he smiled at that comforting thought. ---- Category:Short stories Category:SilverLastname